


In Terms Of Curiosity

by whovianmuse



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Abbie had thought that she’d filled her quota on most horrifically embarrassing moment ever the day that Crane had happened upon an open box of tampons hiding underneath her bathroom sink, and had proceeded to call them her little cotton mice until she’d been forced to correct him…only to be swiftly replaced by the time that Crane had accidentally brought up a porn site on her laptop and had actually had the audacity to ask her why scantily-clad women with low, throaty voices and pouted lips were asking him to take his clothes off…but none of that even came close to the night that Ichabod accidentally discovered one of Abbie’s vibrators.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Terms Of Curiosity

            Abbie had thought that she’d filled her quota on _most horrifically embarrassing moment ever_ the day that Crane had happened upon an open box of tampons hiding underneath her bathroom sink, and had proceeded to call them her _little cotton mice_ until she’d been forced to correct him…only to be swiftly replaced by the time that Crane had accidentally brought up a porn site on her laptop and had _actually_ had the audacity to ask _her_ why scantily-clad women with low, throaty voices and pouted lips were asking him to take his clothes off…but none of that even came _close_ to the night that Ichabod accidentally discovered one of Abbie’s vibrators. (Abbie forever files that night under _conversations dead and buried_ , and if Crane wants to keep his head, among other things, intact, he’ll do well to remember that.)

            They’re all snuggled up on Abbie’s couch for the evening, in the midst of a movie marathon after a long, tiring day at the station, spent poring over endless scriptures and ancient tablets. It was an absolute travesty, in Abbie’s opinion, for anyone alive in this century to have never watched _The Princess Bride_ , and Abbie was determined to remedy that. Surprisingly, Crane had only complained twice about historical inaccuracies ( _it’s a comedy, Crane, they’re not actually_ trying _for accuracy, here…yes, it’s_ supposed _to be ridiculous_ ) and had, overall, quite like the film, if his quiet bouts of laughter were anything to go by. As the credits roll across the screen, Ichabod shifts in his seat, trading the slumped position he’d sunk into during the movie for his usual, ramrod straight posture.

            “Admittedly, that was rather enjoyable,” he says, offering Abbie a small smile.

            “Told you so,” Abbie quips, pulling her feet up onto the couch cushions and curling her arms around her shins. The moment she does, her stomach gives an ill-timed, impatient rumble, and she turns to look at Crane.

            “Hey, how much popcorn do we have left?” she asks. “Pass me the bowl?”

            “I’m afraid I might’ve eaten the last—” Crane starts, reaching over for the plastic container and then stopping mid-stretch, a peculiar expression etched into his features.

            “You okay, Crane?” Abbie asks, concerned.

            “There…erm…there appears to be something hard poking into my backside,” he says, shifting uncomfortably on the couch cushions, before dipping a hand in between them, rummaging about for a few seconds, and then extracting a long, narrow object with a slightly curved tip. There’s a bright flash of hot pink as Ichabod waves it about in the air, and Abbie freezes, eyes growing wide as she stares back and forth between the sex toy she’d accidentally left out from the night before, and Crane’s curious expression.

            “That’s an odd-looking sort of apparatus you’ve got buried in your couch cushions…whatever is it for?” Ichabod asks, and all of the blood in Abbie’s entire body rushes to her cheeks, flooding them with heat.

            “Um, it’s noth—” Abbie attempts, leaning forward and all but lunging for Crane’s hands, only to be met with a childishly indignant expression as Crane lifts his arms out of her reach (which, admittedly, doesn’t take too much effort on his part) and she very nearly goes tumbling, face-first, into his lap.

            “Nothing. It’s nothing. _Really_. Don’t worry about it,” she says, making another quick grab for it, which only serves to make Crane hold it up even higher.

            “Oh come now, Lieutenant,” he says, scoffing playfully. “You can tell me. After all, I _am_ meant to be learning the ins and outs of this century’s customs…you _swore_ that you would answer my every question, and I—”

            “Remember how I said that there were _some things_ you wouldn’t _want_ to know? Some things that are better left unsaid? Need I _remind_ you of the tampon incident?” Abbie warns, cheeks flushing impossibly hotter as she blatantly ignores the way Crane’s lips curve around the phrase _ins and outs_.

            “Need I remind _you_ , Lieutenant, that it was _your_ rule to never bring it up again?” he asks, arching his eyebrows. “But seeing as you have now…there’s no shame in admitting that while I might’ve been a touch…erm… _surprised_ by the concept at first, I assure you that I have moved past it and am now quite at peace with the whole ordeal.”

            “That’s great and all, Crane, but I really don’t think—”

            “ _Besides which_ , you and I have faced all manner of demonic monsters, both literal and figurative, _together_ , and have come out relatively unscathed. I highly doubt that there is anything you could say that would put me off.”

            “Mmm…I can think of a couple things,” Abbie murmurs, absentmindedly biting her lower lip. Crane furrows his eyebrows in concentration, and then, horror of all horrors, begins twirling the little pink device in between his fingertips, tugging at the taut silicone with the pads of his thumbs. Abbie suffers a full-body shiver and cringes so hard she nearly pulls a muscle. ( _At the very least_ , Abbie muses, _she hadn’t opted for the life-like model_. The shape of it is ambiguous enough that Crane wouldn’t be able to tell what it is at first glance. _Which means he’s not going to let up until he gets a proper answer out of her. Why is this her life?_ ) Crane’s nose scrunches up in perplexity as he scrutinizes the toy with an overzealous fascination, and then, struck with a sudden thought, he looks up at Abbie and purses his lips, poised on a series of inquiries.

            “Is it a telephone?” he asks, pressing it up against his left cheek in an attempt to listen for the sound of a speaker, and Abbie nearly dies of embarrassment.

            “Not very practical in shape, if it is,” he amends, frowning.

            “No, Crane, it’s definitely not a phone. Could you just—”

            “Is it a baking apparatus, then? A _whisk_ of some sort?”

            “No, but—”

            “Does it play music, like that _pod_ thing you’ve got?”

            “Crane, would you _please_ stop playing with it?” Abbie asks, exasperated.

            “Why? Is it a remote control? Does it work the television?” he asks, rolling it in between his palms until he finds the small, circular protrusion located at the base. With a quick flick of his thumb, he’s pressed the button, and the toy comes buzzing to life. Crane jumps like he’s seen a ghost, but quickly recovers, keeping a firm grip on the trembling toy and fixing Abbie with a curious expression.

            “Why does it quiver?” he asks, head tilted to the side in confusion.

            _Oh, for fuck’s sake._

            “Because it’s a _vibrator_ , Crane,” Abbie sighs in frustration, finally caving in.

            “Well, I can _clearly_ see that it _vibrates_ , Miss Mills,” he huffs, rolling his eyes for good measure. “But what is it _for_?”

            “It’s, um… it’s like a muscle relaxer,” she says, wincing at her own terrible phrasing.

            “Is it used for massage?” Crane asks, intrigued.

            “You’re getting warmer,” she says, sinking lower and lower into the couch cushions in the hope that they’ll just swallow her whole.

            “I don’t understand why we must play these guessing games, Lieutenant. Can you not just tell me what it is? Would that not be simpler?” Crane asks, clearly irritated now.

            “ _Fine_ ,” she spits, vexed. “Fine, whatever, if it’ll get you to _shut up_ about it.”

            Crane waits, eyebrows arched and lips jutted out in expectation. Abbie heaves a long-suffering sigh.

            “It’s…a _toy_ …for _adults_ ,” she says slowly, feeding him small, seemingly innocent, overly emphasized words, bit by bit, in the hope that he’ll eventually catch on and she won’t have to continue subjecting herself to this mortifying torture.

            He doesn’t, though. He merely blinks at her and (im)patiently waits for her to finish.

            “Oh my god, okay, _fine_ …it’s a _sex toy_ , okay? It’s used to…um,” she trails off, sucking in her lower lip and pointedly avoiding Crane’s penetrating stare.

            “Bring about orgasm?” he offers, his voice suddenly quiet and reserved, with just the barest hint of a strangled groan underneath that final word. Abbie tries her damnedest to ignore the sudden heat pooling low in her belly.

            “Um…yeah, _that_ ,” she says, eyes still averted. “Can I have it back now?”

            Without a word, Crane hands it back to her, fingertips lightly brushing against the palm of her hand, and Abbie chances a quick glance at him. His bright blue eyes are wide, more in wonder than in alarm, mouth rounded in a surprised _oh_ as he stares off into the distance, submerged in deep contemplation. The moment it’s back in her hand, Abbie bolts off the couch and slips into her bedroom, burying the offending toy under a pile of silken, lace-embellished underwear in her top dresser drawer. When she comes back out into the living room, Crane is already standing by the kitchen door, shrugging on his ancient, tattered jacket and lacing up his boots. Slowly, carefully, like he’d planned it just so, Crane lifts his lashes and locks his eyes onto hers, fixing her with a small smile that lingers, not with an air of embarrassment, but with one of smug satisfaction. Abbie is torn between wanting to smack it clean off his face and kiss it into submission. Instead, she takes a hesitant step toward him, and crosses her arms across her chest, leveling him with a look of pure intimidation.

            “We are _never_ speaking of this again,” she says, careful not to touch him as she all but ushers him out into the corridor. Crane pauses for a few moments, seemingly collecting his thoughts, before turning toward her with a cheeky grin. He makes a sudden, but nonetheless elegant, sweep, bending his posture into a proper gentleman’s bow, and says, with the slightest hint of salacity, “As you wish, Lieutenant.”

            Before Abbie even has the chance to respond, Crane has already strolled across the corridor, bounded down the stairwell, and let himself out of the apartment complex, none the wiser of Abbie’s stare burning holes into the back of his jacket as he walks the length of the parking lot. After a few moments, Crane turns on his heel and tilts his chin up toward her window, smiling softly at the way Abbie’s startled expression disappears from view with a quick sway of billowing curtains.


End file.
